PPC Spring Fanfiction Exchange
by PPC Board Writers
Summary: A fanfiction exchange among members of the PPC. Short stories set in Middle Earth, from before, during and after Lord of the Rings. Hobbits, elves, Entwives, the Haradrim all featured in these stories
1. Archery Lessons

Written by: Katie

For: Beauty in Disguise

Archery Lessons 

Queen Elenwen of Mirkwood awoke to find her husband working at his desk in his study again. King Thranduil looked like he'd already been working for several hours. His fingers already had the ink blotches on them that appeared when he'd been writing for a long time, and the stack of papers he was looking over didn't seem to be getting any smaller very fast. He rubbed his eyes and looked back at the paper he was currently reading.

            "Thranduil, maybe you should take a break. You look like you need one. Why don't you come down to breakfast with me?" Elenwen suggested, putting an arm around her husband's shoulders. She knew that Thranduil had the tendency to become so immersed in working that he forgot most everything else.

            "Maybe later," Thranduil answered vaguely. Elenwen sighed, knowing he really wasn't listening to her. Maybe she would bring something up for him to eat later, since he obviously wasn't going to be distracted. 

            Elenwen left for breakfast, still thinking about Thranduil and his workload. Walking through the throne room, Elenwen found her son sitting against the stone wall, looking rather dejected. 

            "Good morning, _ion-nín_," she said with a cheerful smile. When Legolas didn't reply, she knew something was wrong. "What seems to be the problem, Legolas?"

            "Nothing, Nana. Good morning," he answered, trying to sound relatively happy. He seemed to be struggling with something. Finally, he said, "Nana, can I ask you something?"            

            "Of course, little Greenleaf," she answered, sitting down next to him on the floor. It wasn't her preferred place to sit, but she dismissed the uncomfortable feeling.

            "Why does Ada have to work so much?" he asked slowly. Elenwen gave her son a wistful smile. So they were both thinking about the same thing.

            "Well, your father has a lot of things that he needs to do. He has to oversee a rather big kingdom. He has to try as hard as he can to be a good king for all the Elves of Greenwood," she said, trying to make him understand why Thranduil couldn't spend so much time with him. "Why do you ask, Legolas?"

            "I was just wondering." His eyes told a different story. Elenwen could see that Legolas dearly wanted to have his father to himself for just one day. Lately Thranduil had been so immersed in his work that he rarely had a few moments with his only child. She pursed her lips, thinking.

            "You know what, though, Legolas? I think he's been working entirely too much." When Legolas nodded in agreement, she continued. "I think we should ask him to give you a first lesson in archery."

            "Yes, can we, Nana?" Legolas cried, his face lighting up. Elenwen knew how much Legolas wanted to learn how to use a bow. She'd seen him at the archery courses, watching the older Elves fire arrows and hit the targets. She heard the Elves talking about how he would pester them with questions. 

            "Come, he's in the study," she said and walked with Legolas toward the room. The little elfling could barely contain his excitement. Elenwen knocked when they came to the door to Thranduil's study, and, without waiting for acknowledgment, pushed it open and stepped in. Thranduil was just as she left him, hunched over his desk. At the sound of someone coming in, he straightened and turned. A smile graced his face when he saw his wife and son. She mused for a few seconds on how much Legolas looked like him, before nudging her son forward.

            "'Morning, Ada," Legolas greeted tentatively. "Nana and I—well, I was wondering if you would take me out for a lesson in archery." Thranduil's smile disappeared and he sighed.

            "I can't, Legolas, I have to go through all of these papers by tomorrow and if I want to get them done, I can't stop," he said, his voice laced with regret. He didn't letting Legolas down like this, but those papers…

            "That's all right, Ada, maybe some other time," Legolas said, quickly masking his disappointment, and exited the room. Elenwen watched him leave before turning to Thranduil with a frown. Her blue eyes, so much like their son's, with an intense look, made Thranduil look away from her.

            "Thranduil…" she murmured.

            "Yes, Elenwen?" he answered tightly, still trying not to meet her gaze. It hit a nerve knowing that even his wife disapproved of his brushing off Legolas like that. He didn't like doing it any more than she liked seeing it. In fact, he hated it. Thranduil knew that Legolas just wanted to spend time with him. He couldn't give Legolas that time, though.

            "Can't you just—"

            "I have to get these finished, Elenwen!" he interrupted, sounding harsher than he meant. He sent her an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, it's just that my life seems to be taken over by these official documents and notices. It's always sign here, read these papers, seal this, stamp that!" He gestured to the stack on his desk. 

            "Why do you let it then?" Elenwen said softly, walking over to him and placing her hands on his shoulders.

            "I…I don't know," he replied. 

            "Legolas needs to know his father, Thranduil," she said quietly. "And you need to know your son."

Thranduil leaned back, realizing she was right. He needed to forget about papers and remember what it meant to be king—to pay attention to every aspect of your kingdom. That included his son. 

            "Excuse me, _meleth-nín_, I have to go teach my son archery," he said finally after a long moment, and stood up. He kissed Elenwen's cheek swiftly and left the room. Looking down the hall, Thranduil saw Legolas turn the corner.

            "Legolas!" he called, hurrying quickly to the elfling's side. Legolas looked up at his father, clearly trying not to look hopeful. "I think that work can wait. Go on and find a practice bow in the armory, I'll give you your first lesson with the bow. How does that sound?" Legolas eyed his father warily.

            "You're sure you don't have any work you have to do?"

            "It can wait," he repeated.

            "Really, Ada?" Thranduil nodded. "Thank you so much! This is going to be so much fun…" Then he was off again, explaining to the king what he learned from talking to the professional archers. Thranduil smiled.

            A half-hour later they were standing on the archery course. Legolas was holding a practice bow, designed lighter and slightly smaller than a normal bow for younger Elves like himself. 

            "All right, now, Legolas—" Thranduil started, then stopped. His face broke into an amused grin as he watched Legolas struggle to draw the bow. The elfling's face was drawn in concentration and he was trying to aim an arrow that was too big for his bow at a target that was out of his range. He also happened to have the bow turned the wrong way. Thranduil guessed he was just excited. _Very_ excited.

            "Look, Ada, I'm you!" he said and flashed his father a smile. Thranduil let out a loud laugh, something he hadn't done in a while. Legolas dropped his straining arms, muttering about how hard it was to keep the bow drawn.

            "Why don't we start with your stance? You can't expect to grow up into an able warrior if you're planning on shooting with the bow backwards," Thranduil said, stilling grinning. He set the arrow aside and turned the bow in Legolas's hands around. "Now, your foot goes here, and your fingers need to be just so…"


	2. Aragorn and Gilraen

Written by: Writer from Rivendell

For: Thundera Tiger

A/N - Written for the PPC fan fiction exchange for a certain Thundera Tiger. The challenge (or prompt) - Write a conversation between adult Aragorn and Gilraen. 

Well, TT, I tried. ^^ Happy reading!

Summary: "Then Aragorn took leave lovingly of Elrond; and the next day he said farewell to his mother . . . and he went out into the Wild." Herein follows the farewell that Aragorn and Gilraen might have exchanged, along with Aragorn's final goodbye. Drabble - less than two hundred words. 

She did not ask why he had come. She did not need to. Everything she needed to know could be read in one swift appraisal of his face. He was leaving. 

"You have come to seek my blessing," she guessed, "for you are leaving me for the promise of the Wild."

Her son, Aragorn, before known as Estel, nodded slowly. "Yes, I have. Will you not give it?"

Gilraen sighed. "I will not see you go as a man shamed."

"Then you will leave me with your well-wishes?" he inquired.

A smile played across her lips. He knew her too well. "My son," said she, "I will not be the one to hold you in Imladris. You shall not be my captive here."

He bowed his head in thanks. "Then I may take leave of you, and of the House of Elrond, and go forth without a heavy heart."

Something in his words struck a chord; that she was reminded very strongly of Arathorn, of his sense of honor, of his graveness in manner and speech, until she no longer knew whether to laugh or cry. Unsure of what her son's reaction would be to tears, she chose laughter. 

It was with wonder in his eyes that Aragorn looked upon Gilraen laughing. As she laughed, the years fell away, until he no longer gazed upon the face of his mother - a woman hardened by the years of hopelessness, of exile - but upon the face of his father's wife. 

"Go," said Gilraen, as she stopped laughing. "Go into the Wild, and take with you my blessing."

"Thank you, mother," said Aragorn, before turning and leaving. 

She would only see her son once more before she died, in Eriador, before she lost all hope. She would never see him crowned King, nor would she see him married to Elrond's daughter Arwen, or even see him set off on his quest to destroy the Enemy's ring. Yet in her heart of hearts, she knew that upon their last parting, whatever hope she had lost had gone to her son, and that he would carry out what Arathorn had not been able. She was able to die in peace. 

_"Onen i-Estel Edain, ____-chebin estel anim." _

"I gave hope to the Dúnedain, I have kept no hope for myself."


	3. How the Entwives disappeared

Strive For Remembrance

By: Puredeadthingy, 

Written for: Fondued Jicama.

When we found Sauron had come to the Brown Lands, we were all cautiousHe had attacked us; and we had no choice but to go to Fangorn. Our purpose, you see, was to protect the woods of Middle-Earth, and what better place to go than the remains of the great forests of Eriador?

Our lives had been happier before. We tended to our gardens; we watched the Entings play; we wandered through Middle-Earth. But since our homelands had been destroyed by an outsider, Fangorn had to be protected as well. It was by luck that the two Halflings came into this forest and were not threatened. When they revealed they knew and spoke well of Galadriel and Celeborn, they were not harmed; one of our number knew these elves and their children well.

These Hobbits, as they wished to be named, lived in what to them was known as "The Shire." The one who rescued the Halflings would now hear this story, and think, perhaps, of the Entwives.  

Ah, the Entwives! When Sauron destroyed our gardens, the Entwives left. The eldest of our number may not remember them. But they helped sire many Entings; that is to say 'little Ents', so that our race could continue. __

Why did we not go against Sauron? For thissimple reason; we did not know of this abomination. The Entwives tended to our gardens, but the Ents wandered. We only came back when we had the desire to look once again upon our mates.

And that is how we found the gardens tamed; a number of us crossed over the Anduin and found a barren desert.

Why would the old Ent think of this 'Shire', now, is a story appealing to the Entwife nature. The Entwives liked places that were peaceful and orderly and perhaps left for this place; what these Hobbits said made it seem like a great desire for them. 

Perhaps, then, we see why they may have gone there. There was a rumour among these Halflings' people of moving trees among a great forest. Not by our standards, surely, but size itself is cut in half with these people.

For the Entwives we have searched; for the Entwives we have looked to the south, east and west; but there is no trace. Our beards have grown now, and perhaps we shall not see a new age; but never forget the tale of the Entwives, and always strive to remember.

**I never saw the old Ent again. It is my belief he passed away. But although I never had the courage to go to the forest, I think the Entwives may have dwelt there. For Treebeard and Fimbrethil, perhaps, never lost each other; any strand of hope one held for the other would probably be true. For them I remember; for them, I shall not forget.**


	4. A Sort of Different

**Written By: Armeniel**

**For: LeoD**

**A SORT OF DIFFERENT.**

Disclaimer: I don't own, or claim to own, Lord of the Rings. This fic was written in response to a Fic Challenge on the PPC Board. 

Rating: G

Summary: Haldir's journey from the mallorn-trees of Lórien to the Undying Lands.

Thanks to Ciela Night for setting this whole Fic Exchange up.

This fic was beta'd by Charlotte. Thanks, Charl. ^_^

This fic is dedicated to LeoD. Thanks for giving me such a great topic to write about! (It's post-LotR, I hope you don't mind- you said you weren't particular.)

A Sort of Different:

He wondered.

He sat in the Golden Wood, underneath the mallorn-trees that had seen more than he would ever see, and he wondered.

Would things have been different?

Of course they would have been different. If Frodo Baggins had not destroyed the ring of power, of course things would have been different.

That, however, was not really the sort of different he was thinking about this fine afternoon in Lothlórien.  There are many sorts of different: the kind that lingers in the air, plaguing you until you give in and search for it, the kind that willingly binds itself to you and fills your head with 'What if?'s and 'I wonder...'s on a clear day, the kind that you will never come across, no matter how hard you search for it and the kind that is already happening and that can never be erased. The sort of different Haldir of Lórien was pondering was the second kind. 

He had been alert and watching for strangers entering the realm of Lothlórien when this particular sort of different came to him, grabbing hold and refusing to let go. 

Where would he be now, had the ring not been destroyed? Perhaps he would have reached the Undying Lands already. Perhaps he would be leaving, fleeing to escape Sauron's wrath.

Sunlight shone from above, filtered through the great boughs above him. It directed itself on to his upturned face, lighting his complexion and brightening his eyes, the eyes that for so long had been tainted by worry and fear. Fear that if the power of the Lady Galadriel could not stop Sauron, then nothing could. Worry that it was ridiculous to send a hobbit to do an army's task.

But they had not needed an army.

It had not been the army, nor the Lady Galadriel's power, that had destroyed the root of all evil. It had been the hobbit.

So what did that say about him? Had he, Haldir, misjudged Frodo, or had Frodo misjudged his own ability? Creasing his brows and following this train of thought further, he concluded that it had indeed been Frodo who had misjudged himself. Frodo had not realised what he could become.

Either that, or he had not wanted, or needed, to realise.

Then his unconscious mind jumped to another subject, as minds tend to do when they are left to themselves without conscious supervision.

Haldir had lived a sheltered life of sorts. He had seen war and he had seen death, but he had never been alone when he faced them. Wherever there was war, wherever there was death, there was the familiar air of maybe. The maybe that reminded him when to stop when he had gone too far, and when he needed to take a step back and analyse his situation. The maybe belonged to him. It was his way of describing his own instincts, but a more comforting one. It made him feel as if there really was someone fighting for him, someone rooting for him, not themselves. 

Did this make him somehow less brave than the hobbit from the Shire without the remotest idea that the maybe even existed? 

Haldir sighed, distracted for a moment as he focused on a movement somewhere between the mallorn-trees, about three feet away to his east. Seeing that it was only a rustle of a branch, he settled back into his thoughts again, more aware of his surroundings this time.

It didn't make him any less brave. There are different sorts of brave, just like there are different sorts of different. It's like a flowchart that can lead off in many different directions to reach the same conclusion.

What was his conclusion? 

His conclusion. It sounded so final to Haldir, so complete. He was not complete, that was part of his mystery, part of who he was. He never wanted to be complete, because then there would be nothing left for him to do, to think about. If he sailed to the Undying Lands, would he be complete? 

Lothlórien was fading. The power of Nenya was all but spent, and the Elves were leaving. They had fought and they had won. There was nothing left for them here. Haldir would eventually leave with them, he knew, it was just a matter of when. He was delaying the moment as long as possible, unwilling to leave this beloved realm of peace, but knowing at the same time that it could not always be so. He must leave, and soon, if he were to make a new life in the Undying Lands.

He would miss the mallorn-trees, though. There had been no reports of mallorn-trees beyond the Great-Sea, and no realm was complete without them. 

Could he give up on Lothlórien, this memorial of ancient days long-gone, with a clear conscience? It was the place he loved above all else. He'd learnt Westron and the customs of other cultures, always hungering after information in between serving the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel, toiling underneath the glorious sun. For it had been glorious, in those days. The world would never be as it had been of old, of that he was certain.

He had last seen the Lord Celeborn when he had left with a great army of Elves to go to Southern Mirkwood and fight against Sauron's troops. He had last seen the Lady Galadriel a little while after that. If they had not gone already, they would go soon. They too had felt compelled to leave.

Now it was time for him too to pass into the West. He had always felt himself being increasingly pulled towards the Undying Lands, and now he knew that the time was right. The last of the Elves were leaving, and he would go with them. There was nothing left for him here anymore.

He shook his head, clearing it of thought, and sprang up from under the mallorn-trees, hardly noticing the gradual decline from day to night. He glided away, soon lost in a cloak of jet-black velvet, the kinds of different forgotten for now in the momentary excitement of a realisation.

Haldir of Lórien gathered his brothers, Rumil and Orophin, together for a council that very night, and it was decided that they should leave as soon as they had gathered together sufficient supplies for their journey. They were able to join another ship leaving for the West, and they left Middle-Earth within the next few weeks.

The Undying Lands were all Haldir had expected, and more. There were no mallorn-trees, but he did not find time to miss them much. There were other things to occupy his mind there. There were other sorts of different for him to explore, now that this one was well and truly in his past. 

There are always other sorts of different to discover, and no one has ever found them all. Perhaps no one is really complete, then. 

"Maybe that's a good thing," Haldir spoke in his native tongue to his brother Rumil one day as he took in his new surroundings in the Undying Lands.

"Maybe," Rumil replied, also in his native tongue, "maybe."


	5. Celeborn and Galadriel

By: Fondued Jicama

Written for: UnDeadGoat

A watery blue sky filled the horizon; a peculiar wind was blowing in from the East. It spoke of change in low whispers and high trills, the musing of the winds expressed by their touch on the scraggly scotch-broom covered hills.

            In the damp silence right before dawn, a small company on horseback meandered slowly down a straight and level path. All of them were solemn of face and quite noble looking, except for a very old Hobbit. His head was resting on his nephew's back, a contented smile on his old lips. 

The weight of his uncle's head did not bother Frodo or affect his riding, as much of their journey had been taken with old Bilbo leaning on him in some fashion or another.

            As the sun rose, wispy white clouds scuttled across the sky. To the West it was almost as though a thick wool-like blanket has been pulled up over the rim of the world. The small company took their time, and the blanket in the sky shrank back as if a great hand had folded it up and set it aside. 

            Sunlight struck the lead horse and his rider, Elrond Peredhil. A few feet behind him rode the Lady Galadriel, and then Frodo and Bilbo, and Sam on his beloved Bill. After this was a small host of other departing Elves.

More light poured onto the narrow winding trail, as the morning grew older. As the company turned sharply right and rose up to the same level as the surrounding hills, the ever-present tone of horse hoof-beats was overlaid by the shrill sound of gulls, and on another level yet, the rhythmic crashing of the surf. All eyes, save those of the sleeping Bilbo, peered downward. 

A small bay was the first thing they saw; and then, as their eyes looked farther inwards, there was a silver ship at a grey dock. Right up at the cliffsides stood several great buildings. They were hard to see, for they were carved in such a way that they looked much like the rocks themselves.

            At the sight of the silver vessel, the Elves felt their hearts stir. To Galadriel, it was a feeling of relief; a great part of her heart was made lighter just by seeing the ship that would take her home at last. Her voluntary exile had kept her away for too long.

            The horses picked their way down the slanted road carefully. The pathway was smooth and even all across, albeit a little steep. Frodo and Bilbo's horse slid nearly a foot on the sand-covered rock, right before the path opened up into a flat flagstone courtyard with a silver gate at the fore.

 Below and to the front of them was the sea. The horses' nostrils flared at the smell of salty winds assaulting the bay. But there was one horse who was not troubled: the great Shadowfax, with Gandalf the White beside him; for they had come to join the company on this last journey.

            The Hobbits stared out into the ocean, mesmerized by the unfamiliar waves, until a tall bearded man appeared at the gate and opened it for them. He walked well for a man with a white beard, as the sleepy Bilbo commented into Frodo's ear. 

            Frodo smiled. "He is an Elf, Bilbo," he said gently. "That is Cirdan the Shipwright. He is to take us across the Sea, to our new home." 

            "Our new home," Bilbo echoed softly, his head dipping back down to his chest.

            As Cirdan reached the Hobbits he bowed smoothly, and turning to the Elves and the Maia he greeted them in his own tongue. 

-But even as they stood there, and other Elves were going aboard, and all was being made ready to depart, up rode Merry and Pippin in great haste. And amid his tears Pippin laughed.

"You tried to give us the slip once before and failed, Frodo." he said. "This time you have nearly succeeded, but you have failed again. It was not Sam, though, that gave you away this time, but Gandalf himself!"

"Yes," said Gandalf; "for it will be better to ride back three together 'than one alone. Well, here at last, dear friends, on the shores of the Sea comes the end of our fellowship in Middle-earth. Go in peace! I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil." 1

Then he and Galadriel and Elrond stepped onto the ship. Frodo came right after, helping Bilbo up onto the gangplank, and he could still hear Sam crying. Poor, poor Sam, he thought, I do hope you find yourself. No. I know you _will _find yourself.

            The white sails unfurled. The breezes picked up and the winds of Men and Middle-earth came down into the Grey Havens and swept the last of the Great Elves out, out into the ocean, and towards their home. 

Night is upon Lothlorien. In the tallest tree, on the highest flet, the Lord and Lady of the woods sit by each other in silence. There is something that Celeborn wants to say, but doesn't know how. 

_            A chorus of crickets has started to sing in the background. Galadriel looks at her husband and smiles; she knows what it is that he is trying to say. She understands._

_            "You worry that you will not see me again," she supplies for him, when he cannot say what he is thinking. "You are afraid, but still you would see me depart." _

            Celeborn looks at her in silence, and everything about his looks verifies her conjecture. It is in his hesitancy to speak. It is in the strength in which he holds her hand. It is in his eyes. 

_            When he does not reply, the Lady closes her eyes and muses to herself aloud. "Would you still let me go, if we were to be apart forever?" The crickets' chorus grows louder, as if to drown out her words._

_            Celeborn's eyes darken; he raises his hand to her cheek and turns her face towards him. "Is this what you have foreseen, my Lady?" Yes, he looks afraid._

_            Galadriel rises from her seat, walking to the edge of the flet. Her dominion- the world of light that she has built- stretches out all around. A thousand lamps cast a pool of white down from the trees._

_            Even as he is coming to stand beside her, she speaks. "If I had foreseen such a fate for you and I, I would not leave you. I would not make you choose." _

An hour later and they were still rowing. Frodo sat quietly next to Bilbo, who was still sleeping. The waves lapped lightly against the ship as it cut gracefully through the water; and Galadriel stood at the helm, staring into the mist. 

            There was no sound from the water- no gulls, no splash of fish, no crashing of wave upon wave. The only thing that could be heard was the calling of memories regarding the things that had been left behind.

"Our people are fading, Hir nin. 

_I will join them in a place of unceasing Light._

_I will look to the East as each new day begins,_

_I will watch the Sea with every rising of the sun."_

Soon the fog had rolled away, and the sun was glinting off of the waves. The Lady of Laurelindórenan looked up from the waters and beheld the sight of a land she recognized still. 

            She glanced to her right and saw Elrond smiling. She could tell he was thinking of Celebrìan, and of how close he was to seeing her again. And as her daughter had waited for her lord to come, so Galadriel knew it was her fate to wait as well. 

Someday, she knew, there would be a ship for her Celeborn; and the winds of Middle-earth would bring him home to her again.

(Beta provided by Aubrey petite soleil)

1.) Comes directly from the RotK text.         

  


* * *


	6. The Troth Plighting

Written by Perdu for the PPC fic exchange

Written for Hal

The Troth Plighting

High above the hill, the moon and glittering stars shone in an effort to give their blessing upon this hour. Two forms stood atop the hill and gazed at the beauty surrounding them. One of them spoke in a persuading tone.

"The fate of Men is uncertain. They are not tied to this world and thus escape to a place known only to Iluvatar. The Firstborn have always known that peace and rest were but a ship-voyage from the Havens. Men have no such promise. Do not abandon that hope for a weary existence in this tired lands" he argued.

"I would turn from that and embrace the Gift of Men if you would have me," she stated.

"I love you, but I would not have you be separated from your kin" he said quietly. He moved to stand beside her and faced the West.   

"That is not your decision to make. You know that my heart is pledged to you. Even though you doubt yourself, I believe that you will prevail and return to me when all has been accomplished. I will not leave you to face these times alone" she spoke earnestly.

With that, he pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle and began to open it. Arwen gasped as she saw its contents. In the center of the cloth, a ring of curious design gleamed in the moonlight. Two silver snakes were intertwined to form the band while an emerald of deep green separated the tails.

"How did you come by this treasure?" she wondered. "I thought it had been lost Ages ago."

"Not so," he said with a faint smile. "It has been kept for this hour and this purpose."

A tear found its way down Arwen's cheek and dripped to the ground of Cerin Armoth with a soft splat.

Aragorn gently grasped her hand and began to speak.

"This ring has ever been a sign of trust between the Firstborn and Men. I give it to you now as a hope for the future. Hope that one day I will regain the throne of my ancestors and hope that we may find some measure of peace with each other. I do not know what road lies ahead of me. However, I now betroth myself to you. Whatever comes, we will face it together," he vowed in a solemn tone.

Arwen stared at the ring now gracing her hand and looked up at Aragorn with peace in her eyes. "I accept this ring as a sign of our betrothal and as a promise of the things to come. I will turn from my kin and join with yours," she answered. 

With that, the Eldar and the Edain were again joined, this time for the last.


	7. Over the Firelight

Over the Firelight 

Written By: Hal

For: Puredeadthingy

Something rustled behind him. It was too sudden to be the wind blowing the trees. He searched through the blackness, trying to see something in the vast emptiness.

"Who is it?"

"Me," said a soothing voice.

Aragorn grasped for some twigs to start a fire. The darkness was lifted by a pale glow of red firelight. He looked across the space and saw the lady who had spoken. Her raven black hair flowed down her back, and her ears turned towards the sky. Her skin was fair and young; she was an elf. 

"You cannot be here," Aragorn said hesitantly. "Lord Elrond would not approve of you coming to find me."

"It does not matter. My feelings have left me in a tough place." She pressed her lips together to form a straight line across her face. 

"Arwen, the Dark Lord, Sauron, is rising again. You are in grave danger being here. I cannot risk you dying to be with…_me_."  
  


Arwen walked over to Aragorn. "But I will risk it. I bound my heart to you, and that I cannot ignore."

He lifted his head up and gazed into her eyes. The deep, blue water rippling under his stare. His eyes silently urging her to leave him be. _Leave. Go back to Imladris. Go back to your family and home. Be safe._ But she stayed where she was, her lips trembling in fear. 

"Aragorn, the Ringbearer has returned. The One Ring has been found. I came to find you as soon as I found out. The Fellowship has formed."

He sighed. "Undoubtedly, you do not wish for me to go, but understand the urgency of the quest.  You know of my risk?"

She nodded. "Just…promise me you'll love no one else." 

Aragorn closed his eyes and leaned into her. "I promise."

Arwen smiled, a single tear ran down her cheek. "I must go." 

"Wait!" Aragorn stood up after Arwen and put his hands around her waist. "You forgot something…" He moved his head forward and put his lips on hers. 

They kissed for a moment until she let go. "Namárië." And her body melted into the darkness. 


	8. Cerin Amroth

Written By: Beauty ID

For: Nathonea

A/N: Written for the fic exchange. Nathonea requested one shot angst or reflections, or Aragorn/Arwen fluff. I figured I'd do Aragorn/Arwen angst with some fluff. It ended up really just Arwen angst with no fluff. It's also very short. Hopefully it's not too bad, though.

Cerin Amroth

It was on this precise spot, amidst the elanor and niphredil, that they had plighted their troth. On Midsummer's Eve they had stood upon the fair hill, and rejected the shadow; and Arwen, with a heavy heart, had renounced the twilight.

   Her choice – had there ever been a choice? Even after their first meeting at Imladris, she had felt her doom. For many years she had sat while Estel roamed the wilds, and slowly she felt darkness creep into her heart. A weight was upon her that even Lothlórien could do little to lift. For in that time she began to understand her fate, and the reality of it pained her, but she had accepted it.

   It was with great sorrow that she had left her people, but the most grievous of all partings had been with her father. She knew that her decision was even more painful for him to bear than for herself.

   She had watched her family fade into the west, and she had remained in Middle-earth. Her father and her brothers would meet her mother and all the others who had gone West to Valinor again, and she would linger and finally die a mortal death, going to the uncertain resting-place of Men where no Elf dwelt. It was then that mortality had seemed to her most bitter.

   And yet in the years after she was married to Estel she knew joy that she had never known before. The lands had flourished under their rule. Sorrow gave way to laughter, and fear to hope. She loved Estel, and she loved her children, and her days were happy. 

   It had seemed that the world breathed anew, and was filled with a light that had been obscured by the shadow for ages. Green things grew in the city, and around Minas Tirith the land became alive and bright again. Every day seemed to bring forth some new wonder. And Arwen forgot, for a while, the full meaning of her choice.

   She was unaccustomed to the abruptness that came with mortality. Suddenly it had seemed that a darkness descended on everything again, the brief happiness torn cruelly from her feeble grasp. Estel was dead. She was left with a numb heart, and trembling hands. She sat at his side for a long while, but he had made his choice, as she had made hers. It was time for her to go.

   She had fled to the place that had always brought her peace in times of turmoil and grief. Lórien had never failed to soothe her and mend her wounds, but as she moved through the barren woods she knew that she would not find rest in this hollow mockery of what once was. But there was one place left, perhaps, that could pacify her sorrow.

   The woods of Lothlórien were cold and grey and silent, as if all the life had been drained from the earth. And as Arwen crested Cerin Amroth, she could feel her own life waning.

   She rested her head on the soft grass of the hill. Elanor and niphredil still bloomed here. She turned her eyes to the night sky lit with the pale stars of winter, and felt empty and alone as the land around her.

   'This is my doom,' she thought to herself. 'Yet at least I know that I go to him now. The years have made me weary, and I long for rest.' She had said farewell so many times; this was her last.

   When Spring had not yet come, and Lothlórien was fading, Arwen Undómiel died. Beneath the light of the stars the shadow had departed, but so had the twilight. So it was that the doom of Aragorn and Arwen was finally complete, upon Cerin Amroth where first it was avowed.


	9. A First Ride

Written by: Fawkes

For: Katie

I'm rather partial to Aragorn and Legolas friendship centered fics (pre-FotR?), or ones with Elladan and Elrohir. **Eowyn fics are also good.** Maybe something with Boromir and Faramir pre-FotR? Doesn't really matter if it's humor or angsty. I don't really do slash though.

A First Ride

            A young girl with long, blonde hair sat on the steps of the Golden Hall, rocking slowly back and forth, waiting…

            This girl's name was Eowyn. And today her brother, Eomer, promised to teach her how to ride a horse, and she was very excited. So excited, in fact, that she had barely slept the night before and had been waiting on the steps for two hours with the icy wind blowing at her face. 

            She found Eomer though, coming slowly up the steps of the Golden Hall, trying to look dignified. Unfortunately for him, his moment was ruined as Eowyn came bounding down the steps, jumping to hug and kiss him, and he fell over.

            "Eowyn, please get up," Eomer mumbled as Eowyn jumped up, a big grin plastered on her face that had refused to leave her since she woke up early that morning. "Alright," he brushed himself off a bit; his pride hurt more then his body; crossed his arms and examined his sister. "Are you ready?"

            Eowyn nodded eagerly. "I did everything you told me to! And I've been going over what you told me to myself."

            "That's wonderful," he said with a smile. "Would you like to come down to the stables now, pretty miss?" Eowyn squealed and ran the rest of the way, Eomer running after trying to catch up.

            When Eomer finally got there, Eowyn was already petting one horse and smiling. "I want this one!" Eomer took one look at the horse, and immediately tried to steer Eowyn to another one. Unfortunately, she couldn't be persuaded. 

"I want that one!" she said stubbornly. "What's wrong with it?"

"Er…" Eomer looked at the horse again. "It looks…a little restless." Then he sighed. "But, if you really want to, we'll use that one."

Eowyn grinned and ran over to the horse, petting it again. "What's its name?"

"Um…I think its Windfola."

"Pretty name."

Eomer sighed again; at eight years old, his sister was sometimes near impossible to talk to, nevertheless persuade. "Alright, first we have to get the saddle I showed you yesterday. You remember that?"

"Oh, yes!" Eowyn ran over to where there were some spare saddles and grabbed one from the top, nearly falling over from the weight as she carried it over to where Windfola was standing impatiently. 

"Alright, let me put the saddle on Windfola this time, alright?"

"But…I want to!"

"You're too little, Eowyn. Now please give me the saddle." Eowyn reluctantly handed it over to Eomer as he then strapped on the saddle and hoisted her on top. She looked even more excited then before now that she was actually on the horse. 

"Alright," Eomer held on to the reins so that Eowyn wouldn't take off earlier then he wished her to, "first, remember to hold the reins very tightly and not to let go." Eowyn nodded. "Secondly, do not go to fast and only listen to what I say." Eowyn nodded again, getting more and more impatient every second they stood there. "Now, go to the end of the stable at a trot. You remember what I told you yesterday about controlling the horse's speed?" Eowyn nodded again and, slowly, let Windfola take her to the edge of the stable, smiling the entire way. 

"Alright, that was good." Eomer gave his sister a grin, which she returned very brighty. "Okay, now go outside; yes that's good. Alright," he climbed onto the horse behind Eowyn so that he'd feel a little better, "now, take us to that pole over there, you see it?" Eowyn again nodded and set off, a little faster then she had before.

Eomer noted that she was doing very well for her first time and he told her that she'd be just as good as he was in no time. She only did what he told her, never went to fast, and never lost control. 

"You're doing very well little miss, but, lets see how you handle it by yourself." He got off and jumped onto the ground, looking up at his sister, her eyes shining with excitement. "Now, all I want you to do it ride in circles for a little bit, but not too fast. Are you ready? Go." Eowyn did just as she was told. Eomer noted that she seemed to look like she was getting sore, but she wouldn't say anything. 

It was a few minutes later that Eomer noticed something; Eowyn's foot was out of place on the right side. "Wait, Eowyn, come here for a moment!" Eowyn tried to turn around, but, in the process, he heel dug into Windfola's side and she took off. 

"Eowyn! Pull on the reins! You have to stop her!" Unfortunately, Eowyn couldn't hear him, and she was having a hard trouble staying on. Eventually, she fell off not more then ten feet away from Eomer. He ran to her as quick as he could. 

"Eowyn! Are you alright? Is anything broken are you hurt badly?" For a second, she didn't move, then, slowly, she got up and looked at Eomer, a large grin on her face.

"When can I go again?"  


	10. Always

Always

Written By: GreyLadyBast

For: Fawkes

Had it not been for a trick of acoustics, Boromir would never have known how bad things had gotten.  As it was, he very nearly did not stop when he heard the muffled weeping over his own hurried footfalls.  He was already late for practice.  He could not afford to be later.  Still, the familiar cadence of his little brother's sobbing tore into his heart, and he knew his conscience would give him no peace if he ignored it.  Since he was already due for a scolding, he may as well make it worthwhile.  Taking care of Faramir was more important than swordplay, anyway.  His mother said so, though his father disagreed.

Decision made, Faramir proved harder to track down than expected.  The same acoustical quirk that augmented gentle weeping played tricks with direction.  More than that, the boy was an expert at Hide and Seek.  He was always the last found, if he could be found at all.  But the crying did not stop, so neither did Boromir.  His brother needed him.

Persistence, as always, paid off.  He eventually found his brother huddled in an alcove behind the statue of a forgotten king.  

"Faramir?" he called softly.

"Go 'way!" came the muffled reply.

Of course Boromir did not obey his brother's command.  Instead, he crawled into the tiny space where he hid.  It was a tight squeeze for the bigger boy, but Boromir managed.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Something is obviously wrong, Little Brother.  You do not cry for no reason.  Tell me, I may be able to help you," Boromir insisted.

"I'm fine," Faramir sulked.

"No, you are not fine, and I am not leaving until you tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong!" Faramir snarled, "Go 'way!"

"Is it Mother?" Boromir asked, fear clutching at his heart.  He could think of few things to put his baby brother in such a state other than their mother's ailing health taking a turn for the worse.

Faramir sniffled, "No, it's not Mama.  Not really."

"Is it Father, then?"

When Faramir did not reply, Boromir knew he'd hit a nerve.  Though he could not really understand it, he knew his father was often at odds with his younger brother.  It made no sense to the older boy.  Not quite five, Faramir had not lived long enough to really earn their father's disapproval, or so Mother insisted.  Nevertheless, it seemed to Boromir that the younger boy could do nothing well enough for their father.  And Boromir could do nothing to change the situation.

They remained silent for several minutes.  Faramir sucked his thumb (something he would let no one but his brother or his mother see  him do) and cuddled the battered toy Boromir had sewn for him years ago.  Their mother had insisted that a future Captain of Gondor must know how to stitch his men's wounds, and to learn to sew flesh one must first learn to sew cloth.  So Boromir made a gift for his baby.  It was supposed to be one of the mythical Halflings of the North.  That it looked more like a lumpy blob made no difference whatsoever to Faramir.  His brother had made it just for him, and he loved it beyond words.  It made him feel safe.  He took it with him everywhere.

The silence lengthened.  At last, Faramir asked plaintively, "Bory, is it my fault?"

As Boromir had no idea what Faramir was talking about, he asked "Is what your fault?'

"Is it my fault Mama's sick?"

The question took Boromir entirely by surprise.  "Of course it's not your fault!  What gave you that silly idea, anyway?"

Faramir refused to look at him.  Boromir took his baby brother's chin and gently forced him to look him in the eye.  Then he asked again, "What made you think such a thing?"

The younger boy gulped, "Father."

Boromir's eyes narrowed, but he kept his cool, "And how did Father make you think Mother's being sick is your fault?"

"I heard him say so, to Unka Imr'il," the child blurted out.  Their uncle was in Minas Tirith visiting his sister, their mother, because she was so sick.

"Were you eavesdropping, Little Brother?"  Faramir reluctantly nodded.  "You KNOW you're not supposed to listen in on the adults!"

"But it wasn't my fault!" he protested.  "I'd left Flooby"-----Flooby was the stuffed Halfling's name-----"in the study under the big desk when I was learning letters, and I went back to get him.  And then I heard the door open and I heard Unka Imr'il's voice and I wanted to show him how good I'm doing writing so I went to get out from under the desk but then I heard Father say. . ." he trailed off.

"What did Father say?"

"He said 'She's been sickly ever since that brat was born!'  That's what he said.  I heard him."

A sharp spike of anger startled Boromir.  He was only ten years old; he didn't even know a person COULD feel such rage, let alone directed at his own father.  But the unfairness of blaming Mother's illness on the baby shook him to his core.

Still, he controlled his expression as best he could.  A show of anger now would only frighten Faramir, and that would not do.  With tightly pursed lips, Boromir asked, "And what did Uncle Imrahil say to that?"

"He said that the wasting disease ran in the women of his family, which Father knew when he married Mama, and he shouldn't blame it on me."

"Uncle Imrahil's right.  Mother's sickness is NOT your fault, Faramir.  It never was and it never will be, no matter how unreasonable Father gets!" Boromir sternly insisted.

"Are you sure, Bory?"

"I am absolutely positive, Little Brother."

Faramir seemed reassured.  For a while they sat quietly, taking comfort in each other's presence.  Eventually, the younger boy spoke, "Bory?"

"Yes, Faramir?"

"Will Mama die?" 

Boromir thought hard before answering.  He had been taught not to lie, but he'd also been told to protect the baby.  In the end he decided that in this case, the best way to protect Faramir would be to prepare him for the inevitable.  That meant telling him the truth, "Yes, she will die."

Faramir sniffled, "Soon?"

Boromir nodded.

"Is that why Unka Imr'il's here?"

Boromir nodded again, "You know Mother is his sister, and he wants to say goodbye to her before she dies."

"Will you say goodbye, Bory?"

"I will.  It'll be hard, but I will."

"Can I?"

Boromir paused.  He wiped tears he could not let the baby see from his eyes as he replied, "If that's what you want, then yes, you can say goodbye, too.  I know Mother will like that."

"Will Father object?"

"He might, but I will make sure you get a chance to say goodbye.  I promise," Boromir vowed.

Faramir nodded, satisfied on that score.  He knew his big brother always kept his promises, and if Bory said he'd get to say goodbye, then he'd get to say goodbye.  The thought of Mama dying made him sad, but at least he'd get to make sure she knew he loved her lots before that happened.

That thought brought up another worry to be addressed.  Faramir knew his father didn't like him, though he did not know why.  He was afraid of what would happen without Mama there to stand between them.  So he asked again, "Bory?"

The older boy sighed, annoyed out of his own budding grief, "Yes Faramir?"

"Who will love me when Mama dies?"

Boromir stared down at his baby, dismayed that he even felt the need to ask such a thing.  It showed how much Father's scorn had rattled him.  He thought of what Mother had said the last time he'd been to visit her, just hours ago.  She'd said that Faramir would need taking care of, and made him promise to look after him.  She had told him to protect the baby, even from Father.  Boromir had not understood the request at the time, but now, watching Faramir's tear-stained face look so trustingly up at him, he did.  

So Boromir did the only thing he thought he could do.  He gathered Faramir into a tight embrace and said, "I will love you, Little Brother.  Always."


	11. Lengths and Measures

**Written By: Thundera Tiger**

**For: Kippur**

**Lengths and Measures**

As a general rule, Legolas avoided the deeper and darker areas of his father's cavernous stronghold. He rarely descended as far as the cellars, and even the bustling lower kitchens—a haven for patrols coming in late at night—were seldom graced with his presence. None of the elves were particularly relaxed in Thranduil's subterranean halls, but some were more uncomfortable than others. And despite all efforts to the contrary, Legolas could be counted among the unusually anxious when it came to dark rooms and small spaces.

Yet even as necessity had dictated that the woodland elves live beneath the ground, necessity now dictated that Legolas journey to one of the dreaded lower chambers. He took with him several lanterns that would be used in addition to the lamps already placed about the small room. Additional light helped drive away the claustrophobic fears that lurked in the recesses of the prince's mind, though it would not set him completely at ease. But at least things would be tolerable for several hours, and Legolas didn't plan on staying any longer than that. An hour or so was more than enough time for him to make a sufficiently thorough inventory of the room's materials, which consisted primarily of wood that could be carved and shaped into arrow shafts.

Every elven archer knew how to make his own bow and his own arrows. It was one of the first things that beginning warriors were taught. But once having learned these skills, many set them aside. Most elves still fletched their own arrows, but the forging of the head or the carving of the shaft were tasks usually left for others.

The best archers, though, tried to take part in as much of their weapons' construction as they could. Given the harried state of affairs in Mirkwood and the constant need for vigilant guards, this was not always possible. But despite their circumstances, those elves deeply committed to the art of the bow almost never allowed their arrows to be crafted by others. It was a point of both pride and confidence, for the archers who took such measures to ensure the reliability of their bolts relied on their shots in ways that other elves did not. These archers made up the patrols that hunted shadows in the night, and one errant shot could result in death for the entire group. Their arrows could be nothing less than perfect, and for these reasons, the raw supplies for their arrows were kept far away from the hustle and bustle of daily life so that they might remain pure and untainted. Additionally, most of these archers felt that spending time in the small, secluded room near the cellars was something of a rite of passage. If one could endure the cramped quarters as well as the silent tedium of searching through endless rods and limbs, one could be considered a true archer.

And so Legolas, with a quiet sigh of resignation, pushed open the door to these chambers and entered, setting down his lanterns and lighting them before going on to light every lamp he could find. Once that was done, he stepped back and looked around the room, ultimately deciding that one of the lamps was missing as it seemed darker than usual to him. He would have to make inquiries later. But for now, he would push such matters aside and concentrate on finding the wood he needed so that he could retreat back to his own quarters and replenish his supply.

He had returned with a scouting party the previous morning after a nearly disastrous encounter with a large pack of Wargs that had been dangerously deep in elven territory. There was a famine of sorts in the southern regions of the forest, and the wolves had been ranging further and further abroad in their search for food. But this particular group had been so close as to be almost within howling distance of the king's stronghold itself, and the weary archers beneath Legolas's command—tired from a long patrol on the western edges of Mirkwood—had stumbled onto the main pack completely unawares. The resulting skirmish concluded with both sides making tactical retreats, but the cost had been great. Several elves were grievously wounded, and nearly every quiver had been emptied.

Pursing his lips together, Legolas thought back on the incident and shook his head. He had mentally reviewed what had happened several times, looking for ways he might have altered the situation and so spared the elves beneath his command. He had already berated himself for relaxing his guard as they neared the palace, but he knew he could not shoulder the blame for that alone. He had sent runners and forward scouts ahead, and they had reported nothing amiss. The other elves in his patrol had sensed nothing until they practically bumped into a few of the Wargs. Their lapse in caution was both embarrassing and grievous, but given the circumstances, Legolas could not remember seeing anything that might have alerted him to the Wargs' presence. They had taken great care to hide themselves so close to the king's halls, and a weary party returning from a long mission could not be expected to also patrol a supposedly safe area.

Grimacing and deciding to put the matter aside for the moment, Legolas turned his concentration back to the stacks of wood before him. Organized according to length, width, and weight, an assortment of choices met his eyes and he began looking through the selection. He had found himself preferring shorter bolts of late, and he concentrated his search in that area, though he did take a moment to peruse the longer shafts and choose a few rods from those piles.

After a little more than an hour of digging through various stacks and testing the strength of every length that caught his attention, Legolas had a sizeable pile of potential arrow spines. He tried to remember how many arrowheads he'd taken from the forgers earlier that morning, and then compared that number with the amount of wood he'd gathered, eventually deciding that he had enough for now. Rising from his crouch, he gathered the wood in his arms and turned to go.

"I was told that I would find you here."

It was only through a concerted effort of will that Legolas managed to keep from jumping. He did jerk slightly, though, and as he swung around to face the speaker, his keen ears caught the sound of his father's quiet chuckle.

"My apologies if I caused alarm."

Legolas stared at Thranduil for a moment before shaking his head. "Nay, I was merely…distracted."

"Indeed."

He kept his face impassive, but inwardly, Legolas was wincing. The king had said no word of blame concerning the patrol's Warg encounter, yet his son could not help but feel disapproval. He had commanded the archers. It had been his duty to keep them alert, despite his own exhaustion. And though there was blame and responsibility enough to go around, Legolas knew only too well that his father's expectations for his son were high. That he had been distracted moments ago was—

"You are becoming more selective in your choices."

Legolas glanced down at the wood in his arms. Part of him tried to work out whether that had been a compliment, a criticism, or merely an observation—it was always difficult to tell with Thranduil—while another part tried to work out what the king was doing here in the first place. As one of the few surviving Sindar who was old enough to remember Menegroth, Thranduil was more at ease in the lower caves than many of his subjects. But even given his greater tolerance for darker confines, the king never entered the lower halls unless it was absolutely necessary. His childhood in Menegroth had gifted Thranduil with the ability to live somewhat comfortably in cave-like surroundings, but it also gifted him with memories. And memories were painful.

"Legolas?"

"I seek your pardon, sire," Legolas said quickly, deciding to admit his faults openly and get it all over with. He was feeling too muddled to drag this conversation out. "I fear my thoughts are elsewhere this day."

"Then it seems we are of like minds," Thranduil murmured, moving over to inspect some of the longer pieces of wood in the piles.

That was not the response Legolas had been expecting.

When silence stretched between them, Thranduil glanced back at his youngest child and the corners of his mouth turned upward slightly. "Close your mouth, son. I know I taught you better manners than that."

Realizing that he was gaping, Legolas hastily pressed his lips shut, but the enormity of what had just happened continued to press down upon him. Thranduil had just admitted to distraction. He had admitted to a temporary fault. It was unheard of! Legolas could count on one hand the number of times that Thranduil had conceded to a failing of any kind. That the king had just now hinted at having distractions of his own…

Legolas shook his head. His father was never distracted. Focus was everything in Mirkwood, whether it was in drafting treaties and trade agreements with the dwarves or in laying out the finer details of a dangerous patrol. The value of concentration had been drilled into Legolas for as long as the elf could remember. It was partially because of this that he felt so ashamed of the scouting party's distraction and had expected words of condemnation from both his brothers and his father. Now, Legolas didn't know what to think, and that worried him greatly.

"Why the shorter lengths?"

Aware that he was once again becoming distracted by his thoughts, Legolas forcefully jerked his mind back to the present and focused upon his father, who was eyeing the shafts of wood in Legolas's arms. "The arrows have been bending too much after they are released," he said.

Thranduil frowned. "Your bow exerts too much pull for their strength?"

Legolas laughed, a harsh, mirthless sound that sent a flicker of concern across Thranduil's face. "Nay," he answered, shaking his head. "Nay, in fact, sometimes there is not enough pull and my shots fall short. Or rather, they would if the targets were further away. In recent skirmishes, I have been unable to come to a full draw, and as a result, my longer arrows have bent too much upon release. I thought that a shorter shaft might remedy some of this. And it is not as though I have needed the arrows to maintain speed and direction over great distances," he added with a sigh.

"Then you have been fighting in close quarters," Thranduil surmised, his eyes darkening slightly. The king of Mirkwood pursed his lips and studied his son for a long minute before speaking again. "It pleases me that you are making adjustments. Such action demonstrates foresight and cunning."

Legolas nodded in silent acceptance of the praise while he waited for his father to continue. The day that Thranduil doled out unqualified approval would be the day that dwarves learned to fly.

"However, perhaps you should be reminded that an archer's greatest defense is his distance from his foes. You seem to have forgotten this."

All could rest assured that Dáin would not be soaring over Erebor in the near future. "I have not forgotten, father," Legolas said quietly. "But sometimes lessons cannot always be applied. The Enemy grows crafty. The Orcs are better at concealing themselves and their armor is thicker than it has been in the past. The Wargs now wait to attack until many have assembled and they can mount an offense on several sides. Even the spiders have learned new tricks, and they lay traps about their dens that alert them to our presence and allow them enough time to lay an ambush. It has become difficult to slay any of these creatures without drawing close to them."

"Unfortunately, that is all too true," Thranduil murmured, turning his attention back to the stacks of wood that lined the walls.

Greatly puzzled by the situation, Legolas watched his father closely, his curiosity mounting by the second. Thranduil was not an archer but a swordsman. He had no reason to be here unless he was specifically seeking Legolas. But even then, it was more customary for the king to summon his sons than to look for them himself. Moreover, if Thranduil had been searching for Legolas, he would have had a reason for doing so. Yet the king had said nothing of his purpose in coming here, and the delay was worrisome. It was unlike Thranduil to put off matters, be they good or bad. After several weary minutes, Legolas could contain himself no longer. "Father, why are you here?"

Thranduil was silent for a moment, and then he turned slowly, his face impassive but his eyes dark with what could have been either sorrow or fear. "Before you returned, a large number of our patrols to the south were attacked by Orcs issuing from Dol Guldur. Many elves were injured. Some were killed."

"I have heard nothing of this."

"The parties affected have not yet returned. They are being housed in shelters to the south while they wait for some of their group to gain the strength for the journey home," Thranduil said. "Messages were sent informing us of the incident, but I have not yet allowed this news to be made public."

Legolas frowned. "Might I inquire as to the reasoning behind that decision, father?"

"The attack was not a normal one. Something greater is being planned, but our spies can tell us nothing. It feels as though we are being tested, yet I cannot fathom what the purpose might be." Thranduil paused, and then his deep gray eyes fixed themselves upon Legolas in an unnerving stare. "We are sending a small party to investigate. They will venture close enough to be within an arrow's flight of Dol Guldur. The other patrols will be withdrawing until more is learned."

"A dangerous mission," Legolas said slowly. He could now guess his father's reasons for seeking him out as well as a part of his reticence. "I assume that you wish to send some of my more experienced warriors with this party."

"Yes, I do."

Legolas nodded, trying to gracefully accept this added reduction to his own patrols. "Then I release my uninjured archers to your command."

"There is no need for that."

Legolas blinked. "There is not?"

"Nay, for those of your party who shall undertake the mission will do so beneath their current leader."

It required a moment or two before Legolas grasped what Thranduil meant. "You wish me to lead the party?"

"You are more than capable," Thranduil said, and his eyes suddenly fled Legolas's face, breaking the contact between them. "You have shown yourself to be an adept commander, albeit somewhat brash at times. You are gifted in drawing close to an enemy. And your skill in arms is more than sufficient." The king turned back to Legolas, a ghost of a smile playing with his mouth. "Even if you are distracted from time to time."

Legolas offered a faint smile in return. "So noted, sire," he said. "When am I to depart?"

"Two days from now," Thranduil said, his humor disappearing instantly as he returned to the matter of business. "A meeting will be held this afternoon for those captains that are here. This mission will be announced as well as your role in it. We shall go over particulars, you shall inform those beneath your command, and tomorrow you will prepare to depart."

"Then I will now hasten my preparations with these," Legolas said, lifting his arms slightly to indicate the wood he still carried. "By your leave, sire," he said with a short bow before turning away.

"Legolas?"

Legolas turned back, his eyes questioning, as Thranduil stepped forward and handed him some longer pieces of wood.

"If possible, see that you are given more than enough time to come to a full draw," Thranduil said, his voice firm and commanding. "You are talented with many weapons, but the bow is by far your best. Use it as it was meant to be used."

"I will do my best to heed you, father," Legolas promised.

"See that you do," Thranduil replied, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. A large hand fell upon Legolas's shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. "You are needed here, young one. Return safely to me."

Legolas stared up into the king's eyes, seeing things in the stern gaze that were rarely allowed to surface. Fear seemed to hold sway over all, but beneath it was an unmistakable swell of fatherly pride that could not be denied. Then Thranduil blinked and the moment was gone, replaced by the wall that locked his emotions deep within where none could see.

"My thanks," Legolas said softly, recognizing the gift he had been given and feeling a swell of gratitude for this strict, demanding, impossible elf who was both his father and his king.

Thranduil nodded shortly, once again shouldering the mantle of Mirkwood's stern ruler. "Go, then, and make ready. I will see you at the council."

"As you command, father," Legolas said, speaking of more than the implied order to attend the council. A twinkle in Thranduil's eyes revealed that the king understood the unspoken message, and then both left the room, going their separate ways as duty and obligation pulled them down different paths.


	12. Pippin Plays a Prank

Written By: LeoD

For: Dwimmerlaik

Title: Pippin Plays a Prank!

Category: LotR

Genre: Humor

Language: English

Rating: G

Summary: After tiring days ensuring the downfall of Saruman, Merry takes a nap, and Pippin can't resist the opportunity to play a practical joke... very short, very silly.

Author's Note: This short little fluff-fic takes place when Gimli, Legolas, and Aragorn are reunited with Merry and Pippin at Isengard (or what remains of it, in any case).  I know that once they started conversing there wasn't much opportunity for the following scene to unfold, so allow me some artistic license please :) I'm pretty sure that it's error-free, but if there's any glaring discrepancies please let me know and I'll fix it ASAP (after whacking myself for being stupid, that is).

Disclaimer: Don't own anything, please don't sue kthnx.

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**_"...hungry as hunters, the Hobbit children, the laughing-folk, the little people..."_**

**_                -Treebeard's Long List, pg. 211 (The Two Towers)_**

It was a pleasant enough day... the sun was shining, the birds were twittering, and Orthanc was, as of the events that had previously unfolded, demolished and Saruman bested.  And the idyllic weather was lulling a young hobbit, name of Meriadoc Brandybuck, into a drowsy noontide slumber.  He and his kinsman Peregrin Took had been busy for the last few hours, relating tales to their companions of their acquisition of the leaf from the Southfarthing of Isengard (and other slightly more serious topics as well).

Reunited with Legolas Greenleaf, Gimli son of Gloìn, and Aragorn, Isildur's heir, and now enjoying the find smoke of the aforementioned leaf, Meriadoc indulged in what he considered a well-merited respite.  Had he not earlier aided with the downfall of the residence of the cursèd Saruman?  Pooh, never mind the fact that Sauron was still at large, dangerous as ever... no, Shirefolk deserved a break every once in a while (when they had a chance to catch one, that is), after all; with this justification in mind  Merry felt not the least bit of guilt as he dozed off.  Well, possibly a twinge of misgiving, but could those be classified as guilt?  Or perhaps something more ominous... the matter was forgone as Merry's head slipped lower, his lips slightly parted and hand loosely grasping his pipe.

"A fine opportunity to play a prank I must say," commented Peregrin, casting an aside glance at Merry.

"Not that you'd even stoop to something of that nature, Peregrin Took!" Legolas reprimanded him, casting a stern look in the hobbit's direction.

"Oh... well, no of course not," Pippin answered with some amount of trepidation- his company, after all, consisted of one of the royal Mirkwood elves, and the other the son of a well-renowned dwarf.  Never mind that both of them were members of the Fellowship of the Ring, noble beings representing their races, pictures of dignity.  Immediately Pippin felt foolish at his suggestion and was about to apologize for it when Gimli spoke to the elf,

"Nay, because you yourself have never committed a crime such as that, my friend!" with a chuckle.

Legolas seemed somewhat taken aback, but then a small smile crept over his features.

Realizing that the elf's earlier tone had been one of mock-primness, Pippin eased and allowed himself a grin.

"Well, it'd depend really on whether one had the heard to disturb the poor sleeping fellow," he stated casually.  All three turned to inspect Merry.

"One would," Gimli spoke for the entire procession; and he and Legolas rose, the former standing behind the snoozing hobbit whilst stroking his beard pensively, and the latter crouching in front of Merry, examining him with mischievous eyes.  Pippin for his part turned in his seat to direct the proceedings.

"Hobbits have most unnaturally curly hair," Legolas commented thoughtfully.

"Most especially on the soles of their feet," Gimli made sure to add, earning himself a jokingly reproachful glare from Pippin.  The elf, meanwhile, continued his musing:

"A pity 'tis the only opportunity we've had yet for some trick like this; there's no flowers about to weave in Master Merry's springy coils."

"Very true," Pippin glanced briefly about the barren land that now surrounded Isengard and sighed.  "But... there's other masteries of hair I'm sure the two of you possess that could be utilized, hmm?"

At first Gimli and Legolas appeared confused and looked at each other, then understanding dawned upon each as they caught onto Pippin's drift.

"I believe Merry's hair is two short for braids such as mine," Legolas said woefully as his fingers wove around one instinctively, "unless you're calling for very short braids."

"Or else you could start one at the crown, and then keep adding new strands... I believe I could manage that," Gimli muttered gruffly.  When met with raised eyebrows, he demonstrated, "Like so," and began to fashion a most interesting braid that might, in modern times be donned a "cornrow".

"That's absurd," Legolas sniffed as he worked on the other side of Merry's head and skillfully created a tiny braid that stood straight upwards, then another, then another...

Pippin meanwhile had discovered some form of vegetation, dead as it were, but one couldn't do much about the matter anyway.  Crumbling a dead leaf onto the top of Merry's head, where no braids lurked (as of yet), Pippin scrutinized his cousin, and then wove several strands of grass into the more compliant curls that nestled on Merry's brow and down his forehead.

Satisfied with their work, the three pranksters stepped back and admired the effect.

"I daresay 'tis a most complementing style," Gimli said seriously.

"Indeed I agree with you," Pippin replied sagely, nodding.

The ends of Legolas' lips were twitching as all three determined not to look at each other, then burst into gales of hilarity that caused Merry to open one eye and grunt, "Ehm?"

And of course, that attracted Aragorn son of Arathorn to divert his attention back towards the scene.  His face contorted into a mixture of amusement and bewilderment; eventually he just raised both eyebrows and shook his head, turning away to hide a smile.  A yelp from Merry revealed that he had discovered his new hair renovation,; laughter erupted from Gimli and Legolas as they watched Merry chase after Pippin, obviously having deduced correctly that he had been the perpetrator.

Finally grinning, Aragorn allowed himself a small amount of fun and delight: they might be hard to get hold of in the days to come.


	13. Bedtime Stories

Written By: Ciela Night

For: Jo

                                          **Bedtime Stories**

It was a quiet summer's evening in the Shire. The sun was setting slowly, as if hesitant to say goodnight until the next morn, it's rays bathing the inside of Bag End with a golden light. Perhaps this is why, that evening, a frazzled hobbit mother had trouble getting her children to go to bed.

"Sam, dear," Rosie called from the doorway of the study, her voice tinged with exasperation. 

"Yes, Rosie?" Sam looked up from the documents he was studying.

"The children are demanding another story. I have no more left to tell them so I said that their da would come and tell them one. They promised they would go to bed after that."

"Well, I suppose I had better go and tell them a story. Little hobbits need their sleep." Sam stood up and walked to where Rosie was standing, stopping in front of her and taking her hands. "Besides," he whispered as he lifted her hands and kissed them, "After they are asleep, you and I can have some time alone." His eyes twinkled as he looked back up at her. 

Rosie let out a breathless giggle and she slipped her hands out of Sam's and cupped them up around his face. "I would say hurry up but you need to make sure that they're all asleep, so, whenever you're finished, come find me." She gave him a light kiss on the cheek, Sam giving her a big smile when she let go.

He slipped past her and she called to him, "The children are in Elanor and Rose's room. I already put Daisy, Hamfast and Goldilocks to bed and they should be asleep."

Sam nodded and went down to the girls' room. He stopped in front of the closed door where he could hear hiss of whisperings and the small echo of tiny hobbit feet moving around the room. A voice lifted from above the other noises was heard. "No, Frodo! You have to sneak up behind Rose, let out a horrible Orc cry and then you try to steal her ring. You don't just grab it and run!"

"Why not?" came the sulky voice of Frodo. "Why am I always the Orc? It was my namesake who carried the ring. I should get to be the Ringbearer!"

"I like being an Orc," said another voice which Sam recognized as Merry's.

"Me too," piped up Pippin's voice.

Sam decided to enter before the argument continued. He opened the door and announced, "I hear that a story is in order before you ragamuffins will go to bed."

The five hobbit children jumped up to greet Sam. He stifled a smile as he saw the costumes they had put on. Frodo, Merry and Pippin were clad in giant blankets and each had small sticks in their hands. Rose was wearing his elven cloak, which dwarfed her small body.  Elanor, Sam noticed with a small pang of pain, was wearing the cloak that Mr. Frodo had bequeathed her before he left for the Grey Havens.

Sam sat down on Rose's bed and five year old Pippin immediately climbed into his lap. "You seemed to have been creating your own story before I walked in here, mind telling me how it went?"

Elanor took off the cloak gracefully and set it on the bed, taking a seat beside it. She shrugged. "We were just play-acting from some of the stories you told us of the Ringbearer and the War of the Ring."

"I was an Orc, Da!" said Pippin importantly, waving about his small stick. Sam stifled a laugh as he told Pippin seriously, "So I see! And a very frightening Orc at that." 

"Merry, Pip, and I were the Orcs preparing to ambush Rose, who's the Ringbearer," added Frodo from where he and Merry sat on the floor.

"And Elanor was the Ringbearer's companion?" asked Sam.

Frodo snorted as he looked up at his older sister. Elanor studiously ignored his look. "No, Elanor was the beautiful elf-maid who came to rescue Rose from the ambush."

"Funny," said Sam thoughtfully. "I don't think I remember telling you that story."

Elanor blushed. "We may have changed a few details." 

"It's your story so I suppose you're entitled to change it. Now, we better get on with me telling a story 'else your mum will get angry with me."

The children crowded around in a circle so they could better hear. Rose decided to snuggle up on the right of Sam and Merry did the same on the left. Pippin stayed in Sam's lap; Frodo and Elanor tugged blankets from the beds to make a nest on the floor.

"Which story d'you want to hear tonight?" asked Sam as the children finished settling. 

            "One about the War of the Ring!" said Frodo. The others nodded their heads eagerly in agreement. But then …

            "Tell us about when you met the elves!" said Elanor, a dreamy note in her voice.

            "No, a story with lots of battles!" said Frodo, his eyes shining with a far away look that imagined a battle where he could be a hero.

            "I want a scary story!" said Merry as he curled up even closer to Sam.

            Sam looked at his children in exasperation. "Perhaps we'll let Rosie chose tonight?" He glanced down at his quiet daughter, who, so far had said nothing. 

She scrunched up her small face as she thought. "I want a story about after you and Mr. Frodo left the Fellowship at Amon Hen." She looked at him with all the gravity of her nine years. "We've heard what happened to Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin and the adventures they had but you never tell us about what happened to you and Mr. Frodo. All you've said is you went into Mordor and destroyed the one ring."

Sam felt a swell of pride as he realized how well his children had listened to his rambling (in his opinion) stories about his and the other hobbits' experiences in the war. At the same time, he couldn't tell them about what happened to him and Frodo when they had traveled to Mordor with Gollum. It was too dark, too full of pain, loss and suffering for him to dare tell his children. He wanted to keep them innocent for as long as he could. He couldn't expose to that yet. 

He had to tell them something though; they were looking at him expectantly. He searched his memories and then found one that stood out in his mind as a brighter spot in that time of horror. "All right," he said firmly. "I'll tell you about when Mr. Frodo and I first met Faramir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor. And," he lowered his voice dramatically, "when your da saw with his very own eyes, an oliphaunt!"

"Really, Da?" said Rose, obviously delighted.

"Really." And Sam continued on with his story; although, he left out some parts, like when the Haradraic soldier had died in front of him. The children were entranced as they listened to him. Sam described being captured by Faramir, the battle between the Southrons and Faramir's men, and how the noble lord of Gondor finally let them free.

As he neared the end of his tale, Sam noticed that the weight had grown on his shoulders and lap. Merry, Pippin and Rose were asleep and Elanor and Frodo were yawning as they listened. 

"I think that's the end of our story tonight," said Sam gently. Elanor and Frodo protested sleepily as Sam stood up carefully, Merry and Pippin in his arms.

"Come Frodo lad, time for bed." Sam shepherded the tired hobbit boy into the bedchamber across the hall. There, he lay the two younger boys in their beds, tucking them in quickly. He went over to Frodo's bed to tucked him in as well. "You were awfully brave Da," mumbled Frodo as Sam bent over him. "When I grow up I'm going to have adventures just like you."

"I'm sure you will," said Sam as he kissed Frodo's forehead. He left the room to check on the girls. When he was back in Rose's and Elanor's room he went to kiss both of them goodnight. They were both sound asleep. 

Sam smiled as he closed the door quietly to his children's rooms. He went to go find Rosie.    


	14. Forgotten

Written By: Kippur

For: Thalia Weaver

-------Forgotten------

A ranger had died.  He had died alone, away from his fellows, in the darkness of the woods, by accident.  He had stumbled upon a camp of orcs while scouting.  They weren't where he thought they'd be. It had been his first mission out alone. The orcs had kept him alive as they played with him. And then they devoured him. Bit by bit, keeping him alive until the very end.  His soul had passed on to that place where men's souls went. 

But it did not leave without notice. Varda had seen him. 

She had seen him and now she wept for him. 

Because no one else would. 

I see her now, kneeling over where he had lain, over where he had died. She had watched him ever since he got captured, her spirit hovering over him. Always making sure that he was able to see the stars, to see her shinning light.  It gave him hope. I know that. 

Perhaps it was hope misplaced. 

It still gave him the strength to hold on, to not submit to their tortures and their questions. 

It gave him hope to live.

For the chance of rescue, for the chance of freedom. 

She encouraged it. Whispering softly in his ear as the wind rustling in the trees or the birds singing during the day light hours while the orcs slept.  She couldn't help him. None of us could. None of us cared to.

Only her.  

 She could only watch. 

But at least she did. 

I walked up to her, my footsteps as silent as I could make them. She still hears me coming up to her. She lifts her head as graceful as a swan. Her eyes filled with stars. Filled with tears. Crystal and pure. 

"There was nothing you could do," I said to her. 

"There should have been," She said.  She takes my hand, soft as silk and strong as iron and stands. 

"I know." 

"He will be remembered." She said this with absolute certainty. I watch her walk off, stars burning brightly in her wake. 


	15. More Than Kisses

**_Written By: Jo_**

**_For: Rosie_**

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**_More than kisses, letters mingle souls;_**

**_For, thus friends absent speak._**

**_               John Donne_**__

The time was fast approaching -- the two hobbits were settled into their home on Tol Eressea and the ship was nearing Valinor -- and Elrond did not know what to do.  He glared at the single sheet of paper on the desk before him, he glared at the quill and ink sitting there so innocently.  His long-cherished plan, of surprising his dear wife, announcing his arrival in the West via letter, was being foiled by an unanticipated problem.  He did not know what to write.

Perhaps the past would give some inspiration.  Rising, and sighing, Elrond made his way to the chest tucked into a corner of his cabin.  Nimble fingers undid the intricate latch and lifted the lid, found the packet of yellowing parchments tucked into a corner.  Gently unfolding the first of the treasured notes, he settled back into his chair and read.

_                                My dearest lord,_

_                But a few weeks on the road to my home, and already I begin to miss you!  How long shall your current business delay your joining me, my love?  I long for the trees of Lorien, but moreso I long for my beloved husband and lord.  It is, after all, but fifteen years since we wed, and this our first lengthy separation.  I hope I may be forgiven my feelings, though my expression of them is, perhaps, rather effusive._

_                I must make haste and close this note, love, for the party returning to our Imladris is ready to leave.  But know that I miss you each day of our separation, and I fear that I shall be quite impatient as a lady of the Second People, in my waiting for my spouse to join me._

_                Let not my impatience cause you undue haste, dear Elrond.  But know that you are in my thoughts each day, for I am yours always,_

_                                Celebrian_

Smiling, Elrond re-folded the paper, brittle with age -- for it was, after all, several hundreds of years old -- and, tucking it back amongst its fellows, removed another.  Glancing at the folded parchment, he saw that the direction was written in his own hand, and considered, for a moment, replacing it and reading another piece of his wife's correspondence.  He changed his mind, however, and unfolded the letter.

                                _Celebrian, love,_

_                How fare things in Imladris?  Whatever the weather, conditions must be better there.  The name of Mirkwood is indeed apt.  Remind me, darling, that when next a council is required, we should invite King Thranduil to **our** home._

_                Do the children fare well?  Watching our friend Thranduil's youngest, a dear lad named Legolas, I am reminded of just how mischievous our twins can be.  Do not hesitate to entrust them solely to their nurses, dear, if they become too much trouble.  You are an inimitable mother, but those two will surely wear you down -- particularly in your condition. _

_                I trust you are resting enough.  As I write this, I watch the moon.  It is beginning to wax again -- now there are but three moons before the arrival of this new little one.  Take care, darling.  Do not, at the least, allow yourself to be pulled into one of Elladan and Elrohir's pranks.  Leave that to Glorfindel, for he has but one life to care for._

_                I must go, my love -- Thranduil summons me.  It is our hope to begin the journey home within a week.  Looking forward to that happy day, I am yours always,_

_                                                                                                                Elrond_

                With a chuckle, Elrond folded the letter.  'Such prose!  Rather hard to believe it came from my own hand, so accustomed to the dry letter of business as it is.'  Still smiling, he returned his attention to the task at hand.  Letter after letter was read, each evoking its own memories, 'til finally he came to one at the bottom of the pile.  Ever so slightly his fingers trembled as he realized this was the last of this history of correspondence with his wife.  He knew what was contained within, and never had he read it without pain.  This time, the pain was slight, for he knew that its cause would soon be gone.  He began to read.

_                                My Elrond,_

_                You know my reasons for departure, dear.  We shall not mention those in these, our last minutes together.  You watch as I write this, waiting to say our goodbyes...            _

_It pains me so to write this, the last letter you shall ever receive from me on these shores of Arda marred.  And yet I cannot be pained, when I think of whither I go.  I shall miss you so, and our children -- but do permit my happiness at the thought of finally reaching Valinor.  _

_                Valinor!  It goes without saying, my love, that I shall be happy.  And yet I begin to miss you already, and we have not yet said goodbye.  Oh, dearest lord, how shall these years pass, when we are separated?  And yet, it is not permanent.  It is but a temporary separation, as all others have been.  But so long!  You know as well as I what must be done before you can join me.  Who among us can know how long it will take, this cleansing of Arda for the Men -- this fading of the Eldar?  Perhaps Manwe, the Elder King himself, knows -- but perhaps none but Eru Iluvatar.  It may be thousands of years, and love, this thought rends my heart.  Yet go I must.  I shall dwell on it no longer._

_                Know, then, my dearest,  how much I love you.  Always remember this.  I cannot leave you with any other thought, for it is all the comfort I have to offer.  Small comfort it may be, but it shall keep you through these years if you will allow it.  Remember our love, and think of the day of our reunion.  Oh, happy day, that shall see us together again!  Not a day will go by that I shall not think of it, and of you, who are always first in my heart.  I shall wait patiently for that blessed day, remembering our love,_

_                                                                                                Your Celebrian_

The smallest of smiles formed on his lips as he put away the letters, yet it broadened quickly into something most closely resembling a grin -- for that happy day had arrived at last.  And there was very little waiting -- very little time -- left.  He could hear the crew of the ship up above, preparing to dock.  So he returned to his desk, this time quite sure of what to write.

The ship was in port, and the passengers disembarked.  Elrond dispatched his letter with an elflet who had come to the docks to watch the arrival.  Galadriel, having heard of his plans, watched with amusement the mounting excitement in the dignified elf.  Her son-in-law looked truly happy, for the first time in the centuries since her daughter's departure.  Much as she longed to see Celebrian herself, she knew well enough to allow her daughter's husband the first joy of reunion.

Lagging behind the lad carrying his missive, Elrond could not but help feeling rather foolish.  This was the trick of a schoolboy -- to end a separation of so many years in this fashion!  Yet it could not be helped now.  He paused as the messenger stopped in a doorway, and, knocking, spoke with someone inside.  A moment's pause, and then his repressed smile broke out again as he heard, beyond the bustle of the busy way, a clear cry of joy from a voice as familiar as his own.  He stepped forward, then, to the door, and the paper fluttered to the ground, the writing clearly visible, and clearly no longer needed.

_                                                                My Celebrian,_

_                .  Remember our love, for it is the day of our reunion!  Oh, happy day, that sees us together again!  Not a day has gone by that I shall not think of it, and of you, who is always first in my heart.  I have waited patiently for that blessed day, remembering our love,_

_                                                                                Your Elrond_

Finis 


	16. Beginning of the End

"The Beginning of the End"

Written By: Ears

Written For: Blue Iris

A gust of wind swept through Lothlorien, sliding through between the branches and sending golden leaves spinning to the ground. _A bit too cold for early September_, Celeborn noted to himself, but he enjoyed its refreshing chill nonetheless.

The birds aubade rang through the trees, greeting the morning sun. He heard familiar footsteps behind him, and the soft crunching of crisp dried leaves. He paused and turned around, sending silver hair whipping to the other shoulder, and saw Galadriel quickening her pace to meet him.

"May a lady join you on your morning walk?" she beamed. Her voice was melodious, her eyes clear and content, recovered and relieved from the past evil-filled years. _So much like when we first met_, he remembered. It seemed she recalled similarity of the situation to their first encounter under the trees of Doriath as well, for both their tense lips began to curve into a smile. The simultaneous grin evolved into a laugh, ringing like silver bells in the morning quiet.

He took her hand, and they continued down the leaf-covered path. Inhaling the fresh morning, air, they were immersed in their own bliss. Thousands of years old, but still enchanted by the others presence like young lovers, they clasped their hands, fingers intertwining, as the breeze shifted the gold and silver hair into a shimmering banner.

Autumn had come early this year, and the leaves, through reluctant to part with their thick branches, were scattered across the forest floor. Celeborn stopped, and turned to face his wife.

"Months ago," he began slowly "you mentioned you were leaving." His tone was gentle, even more than usual, and casual. Yet Galadriel could detect a trace of an accusation in it.

"Leaving..." she echoed.  The word was drawn out, as if it was foreign, and she was debating its definition.

"Sailing away, and leaving behind the land, the forests, the trees, and..." his voiced ceased any hint of accusation now became sorrowful, though his eyes yet showed no pain.

Galadriel paused before responding. "Yes," she finally said, "I will be leaving." And she smiled sadly, "And no, my love, I cannot bring Lothlorien with me across the sea."

She resumed her walking, and Celeborn followed.

"Then it is left to fade," he stated matter-of-factly.

"All things fade eventually. I suppose it is just a matter of when. My departure won't hinder the world's changing, for that which the elves have created have already started to succumb to time. All held together by the power of the Rings have began their fading. For the power of the ring itself had left months ago, and I could do nothing to stop its effect on Lothlorien."

Celeborn nodded, agreeing, but now wanting to accept. "It is the price we all had to pay. We freed the world from evil, and the people from the bonds that held them to Middle-earth. Instead of orcs sweeping through the lands, it is the Call of the Sea."

He raised her hand with Nenya on it to cradle it in his. Staring down at the band of mithril, he thought back to Celebrimbor. Of his sinful ancestry, of his lover for Galadriel, of his crafts. _If only_, Celeborn thought, _if only these rings were never made. If only we were not bound to one. If only, if only..._

He released her hand, and continued walking, each lost in their own thoughts.

After a moment, Celeborn paused again, and Galadriel looked at him questioningly. He gestured upwards, and she followed his gaze up the trunk of a mallorn trunk. There the lord and lady of Lothlorien could see a structure in the once-lush branches, where the tree had grown to accomodate the talan that had been there for the past thousands of years. The flet was empty now, no soft voices accompanying the birds' morning song, no farewells of the male leaving for border patrol. It was still, not glowing with life, and both Celeborn and Galadriel knew that the elves that hand once inhabited it had left.

"So Galadhir and his wife have departed from these shores, never to return. Their bond with this land was weakened, overcome by the sea and it's pull. May he find eternal bliss when he beholds the light of Taniquetil for the first time," she blessed.

"Many more have left. Sauron's damage will be permanent for Lorien," he murmured, voice filled with regret.

She paused before reaching out and touching his shoulder in comfort. "The sea will affect us all, _hir nín_, ring or no. I can hold them here no longer." She took his hand and lead him away from the empty talan, mere remnants of a great beauty that once occupied it.

Their stroll had taken them around in a circle, and within minutes they would be back in Caras Galathon,. Another strong breeze swept through, and golden leaves, loosened from the cling that had kept them on their branches, spiraled to the ground. One gracefully fell and was caught in Galadriel's mesh of unbound hair, waving in the wind. Celeborn drew it out of the golden strands, and held the crisp dried leaf gingerly in his long fingers.

"Autumn winds have descended upon these woods before its time this year," he murmured, and Galadriel nodded in response. A beam of light streamed through the canopy overhead and like a spotlight, showered the brown leaf with sunshine.

"Yes, I wish it were not so, but my mind tells me these woods will not see another thousand years of the seasons changing," Galadriel cast down her eyes, mourning for the forest that was her home for centuries. "It will be autumn for a long while yet, and when spring comes, and summer after it, the warmth will be short before the leaves start falling again."

"And we can do nothing." He knew they were powerless now to stop time from sweeping through and consuming the trees, but he almost hoped that Galadriel, with all her wisdom and ideas, could come up with some solution. His hopes evaporated however, when she shook her head, both in sadness and agreement.

Celeborn reached out to the nearest trunk, caressing the smooth bark. He said to the tree, "The Elves are leaving. The leaves are leaving..." his voice trailed off, and he reached with his free hand to take Galadriel's in his. "You, my love, are leaving."

"And you too, one day must leave," she finished for him.

He glanced back and forth between the tree and his wife, as if torn between his two loves.

Celeborn was old. He was wise, had seen many a trouble in the world, survived many wars. Yet never had he felt as lost as he did now. "When," he wondered allowed, "when will the trees leave?" He turned towards his wife. "When will you leave?" And then after a pause, "and I..." Unable to continue, he sighed.

And though he knew these answers himself, Galadriel's ever soothing voice answered from behind. "The trees will be here for years to come. Their leaves will fall and re-grow, until their final parting from the trees. And the grounds will be covered in a blanked of gold, and the branches will be bare. It will be centuries, or perhaps even another age before the trees cease to glow with color and the Nimrodel ceases it's trickling song. Only time will tell when the wood itself will be gone, for it is time that will whisk through and dance through the bare branches, embracing the wood and carrying them away, one by one, as their life withers and dries, joining the leaves strewn across the floor.

"And I, I leave much sooner, in weeks. My time is done in Middle-earth; staying will not halt its evolution. Galadhir and his family have gone, but many have made preparations and will go with me to the shores. And there they will behold the Blessed Realm for their first time.

"You, my love, you will go whenever you are ready...and I will wait for you there, across the seas."

He took her warm hands in his cool ones, and held her close. Thousands of years without leaving each other's sides, and now, how long would their separation last?

-----------------

            The smooth lapping of water against the wooden docks of Mithlond soothed Celeborn as he embraced his wife. His hands clung to her golden curls, trying to savor the feel of the thick strands as they trickled through his open fingers. Before she turned to the ship, he reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a small yellow flower. Opening her hand, he placed the season's last _elanor_ blossom in her palm, and smiled as her fingers closed over the stem.

            "The forest has just begun to fade. When you see my ship approach the shores of Valinor, know that it is the end of their End; I will leave Middle-earth when they do," he pledged.

            She looked into his eyes, and nodded. "I will weep for the leaves, but now I smile, for it shows you are one with the woods."

            As the white ship headed out to meet the setting sun, she looked back at the silver-headed figure at the dock. And she who once held the power that bound together a Golden Realm shed a tear for the forest she had left, and the beloved who was still bound to it.

Celeborn stared at the horizon, until the ship was no more than a speck in the ocean, brilliantly reflecting the orange sun. And he heard her words echo in his head, _I will wait for you there, across the seas._


End file.
